The Navarch’s ability—the one that could rewrite local gravity, that could thread a fleet through a pulsar’s heartbeat or collapse an enemy dreadnought into a ball of scrap the size of a fist—had just fired. The enemy’s vanguard was gone. Vaporized. But now came the wait.
Kel opened her eyes. They were white-hot, featureless, burning with stored light. The crimson coil around her neck sang. navarch ability cooldown 30 seconds
“Brace for impact,” Darrow said.
And thirty seconds later, when the silence returned, Darrow would reset the timer and wait—praying the next thirty seconds didn’t ask for more than they had to give. The Navarch’s ability—the one that could rewrite local
“Evasive pattern Delta,” Darrow ordered. The helmsman acknowledged. The Wake twisted, but it was a fat carrier, not a fighter. A railgun round clipped the port nacelle. Alarms howled. Atmosphere vented from C Deck. Eleven souls, gone before they could scream. But now came the wait
“Navarch ability ready,” the ship’s voice announced.
It is ten heartbeats too long. It is the time it takes for a missile to cross three astronomical units. It is the span in which a lucky shot can find a reactor core, in which courage curdles into panic, in which a battle turns not because of strategy, but because a god on your side is momentarily mortal.